


Knockout

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Drinking Games, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to tell if he's landed too hard of a blow when she's always got her dukes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knockout

They both slam their shot glasses down at the same moment. John ignores the offered lime wedge and gasps hoarsely; he thinks his esophagus might just jump out of his mouth and storm off in a huff if he abuses it with any more tequila. Zoe just licks her lips and orders another round. John tries to hide a wince as the others laugh and hoot and crowd closer around them, forcing his slumping form further against the sticky bar top.

"Shit, what is this, shot number nine?" Chris asks incredulously.

"Aren't a lot of Asian people allergic to alcohol?" Karl asks.

"Don't you assholes play the race card with me," Zoe says. She tilts her chin up after she licks the salt from her wrist, graceful as ever as she knocks back the ninth, tenth, whatever shot. She fixes John with a level-headed glare that should be wavering by now, if only just a little bit. "Come on, Cho. Keep up the pace."

He lets Anton pour more salt on his wrist and goes for it, tequila, lime and everything. Then, he lifts a finger for a proper announcement.

"I don't have to prove anything to any of you," he says, slurring only on the last word. "I'm a _winner_."

John makes to leave and barely feels it when he careens forward into a pair of wooden chairs. "KO," he hears someone say, as many hands reach to lift him up from his cozy, self-made heap on the floor. He imagines Zoe might treat herself to a victory shot.

As for him, he wakes up the next afternoon with absolutely no clue how he got home.

*

"Come on, man. It's not my fault she's so competitive," John says. Zach just sighs and looks over at the table where Zoe is sulking, nursing a beer and keeping her head down.

"She still seems pretty upset." Zach shrugs at him. "Maybe just go and apologize?"

John scratches the back of his head and frowns. He doesn't really see why he has to apologize for beating her at a stupid game of air hockey. Just because he's the air hockey _master_ , having undergone many, many hours of rigorous practice with Kal, doesn't mean he has to water down his game for anyone.

Okay, so maybe he was a little abrasive. Maybe he pumped his fists and his hips a little too hard and gave out too many high-fives after each point. It's possible that the booty-shaking rendered the entire victory dance a little over the top. It's the risk one takes when performing such a ritual, he figured.

Plus, it didn't really help when Anton crowed, "Down for the count!" and John answered with, "Payback's a bitch, Saldana!" He might as well have said, _I just put you in your place, woman_. And John really doesn't feel that way. How could he? She's _Zoe_ ; her place is so high above all of them, they can't even reach it.

He goes over to her table and sits. She doesn't look up.

"Hey, listen," he starts. "I really didn't mean—"

"I'm going to practice, you know," she says. When their eyes do meet, hers are clear and defiant. "And when I issue you a rematch, I'm going to kick your scrawny ass."

John just arches a brow, sipping at his beer. "And here I thought I had to apologize for not taking it easy on you."

"Please. If you did, I would only think of less of you than I already do."

He nods, bouncing his knee under the table. There's his girl.

*

She never wants things to be easy, not Zoe. She always plays to win. Even now, with her hands fisted in his dark hair and her breath hot beneath his ear, hips grinding ruthlessly against his groin, John thinks she might just go ahead and climb him like a damn oak tree if it means getting what she wants all the more quickly.

John pulls her to him and exhales when she wraps herself around his body, bringing her to the bed. He tries not to crush her when they fall upon her mattress and she uses the gentility as an excuse to flip them over. Zoe smiles at him, her face stretched impossibly wide with the innate pleasure of winning.

"You're taking it easy on me," she chides. She gets his shirt open faster than he can blink and rakes her nails teasingly down his chest, making sure to catch at his nipples. "You know I don't play that way."

"Maybe this time, I want you to beat me," John says, hissing and arching. He helps her pull her dress over her head—the damn thing can't be gone fast enough for his taste—and unclasps her bra with an easy twist of his fingers. Zoe laughs in surprise as the straps slide down her arms and he grins, using the distraction to his advantage and rolling them over again. "See, I got game."

"I know you do," she murmurs.

She slides her hands over his cheeks and jaw, down his neck to his collarbone; he flushes beneath her touch, the way he knows he did after the third tequila shot. Her fingertips trail a light yet insistent path down the front of his jeans, and when she finally gets her hand around him, he sees stars pop behind his eyelids. Zoe guides his hips against hers so his cock slides over the small triangle of cotton between her thighs. It's damp right down the center—the sign of a losing battle. She moans lowly and John knows this is her throwing the game.

"I want the one-two punch," she whispers, her nose tucked against his cheekbone, tongue darting over the corner of his mouth. She reaches down to slide a condom on him; he doesn't know where it came from or how she got it, but he's more than ready for it. "And I want to feel it, blow by blow."

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, his imagination helpfully chimes the bell for the match to begin, gets the crowd roaring and on their feet. They all chant for the knockout, the swift and finite end. But if she's in the ring with him, he wants to feel it, too—every hit, every swing and sweet stumble; the slippery heat of the challenging embrace.

They're both fighters, Zoe and him, and this is where they shine. He pulls down the wet fabric, molds himself to her heat, and eagerly goes down for the count.


End file.
